The Lightning Strike ENG
by menudaputamierda
Summary: Akaashi's so gay and so sexy. Bokuto's so gay and so adorkable. And I'm so gay for them, too. (This is a translation of one of my [Spanish] fanfics. Sorry for my english, it's the first time I've written something "serious" in this language. Be kind, please haha)
1. Chapter 1

"I want to see you  
As you are now  
Every single day  
That I am living

Painted in flames  
All peeling thunder  
Be the lightning in me  
That strikes relentless."

 **The lightning strike - Snow Patrol**

* * *

It was an ordinary day. With the usual coffee, the usual conversations, the smell of asphalt that pervaded Tokyo everyday. It was an ordinary warm May morning, as yesterday, and the day before yesterday, and the last week, and the last month.

The same coach, the same white shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows. The same eau de parfum. The same faces in the newspaper. The same weary look. There was nothing in that day that would make Akaashi Keiji think it would be a different one.

Actually, there had been nothing in those last few months that had caused a glimmer of hope in him. Everything was the same, every day: Go, do your work in the office, and come back home. He watched the TV, too. He ordered a pizza, some days. But then he went to sleep to start again next day. "This is the life you chose." He repeated to himself often, when his fatigue was higher than usual.

He had turned 26 a couple of months ago, and his mother had told him occasionally that "it was time to settle down." But the truth is that Akaashi Keiji hadn't even woke up yet. When he looked back, he realized that he had spent his youth in studying, being respectful and doing what people wanted him to do.

Not a single love. Not a single girlfriend. Not a single binge.

He took a deep breath. He hated the smell of the subway at rush hour. He hated everything he had, so he had learned how to live among his own shit. "This is the life you wanted." He mutters again. And, actually, it was, although what really interested Akaashi was the art.

Painting as a form of expression. He loved watching the great paintings. His parents, however, never accepted that future for their child. "You're too old for this; you're not a bohemian."

And he accepted what his parents said. Because "that is what good children have to do." It was an impossible dream. It was reckless. "Life is not about these things". So one day, he threw away his brushes. "What a nonsense." He muttered. And since, his life were the coffee, the scent of cologne, those faces in the newspapers.

The heat of May.

That subway.

That fake smile each morning.

Eventually, the train stopped. But when he was about to leave the coach, an individual, who also tried to leave in panic of being late, approached him from the right. The next thing he remembered was seing all his papers on the floor.

* * *

It was a head-on collision. The iced coffee slipped from his hand and landed on his brand new shoes. His papers started flying in the little morning breeze. And if it wasn't hot enough outside, his anger inside was higher than hell. His face remained frozen in surprise.

He waited for an immediate apology. He waited for an apology after several seconds. He waited for an apology until he realized that the man had not even realized the mistake he had made.

"Tch, watch where you're going, asshole!" He shouted. The last word felt sharp in his mouth. He was not accustomed to cursing, but in situations like these his education can take a break.

The man stopped, turning slowly, eyes wide open due to astonishment.

And on that moment, Akaashi saw the most weird, stupid and out-of-place man he had ever seen at that boring coach.

* * *

Black baseball jacket, baggy pants, sneakers whose color had been white at some time , but were now brown. White dyed hair, slicked back with dark roots. Hazelnut-Brown eyes. Droppy eyelid.

You'd think our friend was returning from a rave, but, judging by the papers he was carrying in his hands, it wasn't true. Keiji watched them closely, waiting for the pardon that never came.

They were sketches. Drawings. Cartoons. Landscape paintings.

"They're beautiful." He thought. Actually, there was something beautiful in the aura of the other boy. Akaashi had almost forgotten the anger that had born inside him seconds ago.

"Did I do that?!" - Asked the bohemian, loudly, causing the attention of the whole platform. -Did I hit you!? I-I'm so sorry, I don't even know where I put my feet, I'm in a hurry ... "

Akaashi raised an eyebrow.

"... I'm not from here ... I'm not used to take the subway often, so ... hehe ... B-but relax, bro, I swear I'll clean the coffee, I'll pick up your things... and everything will be ok ... and I'll go my way, ok?…"

Without moving, Akaashi waited for the boy to clean his shiny shoes. He felt bad, but he could not help but smile.

"Are they yours...? The paintings. "

The white hair looked up and smiled, as if he had forgotten all the previous situation. "Yes, do you like them?" His eyes gleamed like stars.

He had some freckles. It was a strange beauty. Akaashi coughed and tried to silence his thoughts. "What the hell are you thinking, Keiji."

"Yes, they are fine."

The artist said something, but suddenly the subway bell started to ring. With a smirk, he took his paintings and started running to nowhere.

When he realised, everyone was gone. And there he was, Akaashi Keiji, on a boring morning. On a boring day.

"If I had, at least, asked his name ..."


	2. Chapter 2

"Just for a minute

The silver forked sky

Lit you up like a star

That I will follow."

 **The lightning strike - Snow Patrol**

* * *

And the days passed, as all things must pass. And for some strange reason (he really didn't want to know), Akaashi began searching every morning those freckles, that weird look, that head full of hair gel.

But there was no one for him (although there were many people around). And then he looked down, crossing their fingers, just in case the train stopped again, and some unfortunate human being threw it out coffee to his brand shoes and that stupid person were the white haired man that had been on his mind every fucking second of his boring life since he saw him for the first time.

"It cannot be that hard. It is a matter of probabilities. "He repeated. "Sooner or later he will have to appear."

And he keeps searching him that Monday.

And he keeps searching him the next Monday.

And at the fifth Monday, he gave up.

He was angry with himself. "Gosh, that asshole soaked me with coffee. He was crazy, and it seems that now I need to see him again, even so. Bah. What a nobody. "

(Because artists were nobodies. Because only a nobody would spend all his life painting canvas. Because his parents detested the nobodies, the ones who Keiji always loved).

* * *

"You are more unbearable than ever." His office mate, Tetsurou Kuroo seemed more stressed than usual, even though the only thing he had been doing all morning was trying to overcome the next level of Candy Crush Saga. Both of them were a very effective tandem in the journal: Akaashi drafted the news, Kuroo brought the pictures. The theory was fair, perfect. The practice? Akaashi drafted the news, Kuroo brought the pictures beyond the deadline, after a big fight against the boss, causing problems and headaches to half of the company.

What was he doing there? No one knew. How had he come to such an important position? It was a mystery. However, Akaashi had established a sincere friendship, and had even begun to care about his disastrous partner.

"This company isn't bearable, either." He could feel Tetsurou's smile behind him. "Touché."

Nevertheless, he had a point. There were too many news to write. So little time, so much to do. And there is something that stresses Akaashi out more than not having time to do his job: having time to do it, but losing it because his office mate.

"By the way, Kuroo. Remember that tomorrow we have the deadline to deliver the last work… you know, the one about that traffic accident ... I hope you have prepared the photos. I don't want to listen another quarrel because of y- "

"Relax, man. You're right: I haven't got any images yet. "

He could feel a knot in his stomach, becoming bigger and bigger. He crossed his arms, noting how his inner demon awakened from a long slumber. "I'm going to commit a fucking crime right here and Kuroo Tetsurou will be the victim."

Someone knocked on the door three times.

"But that doesn't mean I have nothing ..." the other boy smiled as he got up to open it. "They're always telling us to be innovative, right? So I have innovated. I didn't bring a photo, I brought a painting! It turns out that the accident was saw by an artist and he painted a very beautiful thing. Well, not very nice -it stinks, but It's interesting, at least. I hope this shit doesn't cost too much, but hey, he seemed a good boy and wh- MAN! Look, speaking of the devil! Akaashi, I present you our lord and savior. "

And yes. He was his lord and saviour.

In the eyes of Akaashi, it seemed he was looking at Jesus Christ in himself.

He pressed his fingers against the chair, trying to wake up. Because he must be dreaming.

"It cannot be happening this to me."

* * *

"It cannot be happening this to me."

An artist always have to know how to recognize the quality of the beauty of each person. No matter if they are men, women, or whatever. And God, that little man he had hit three weeks ago was a quite beautiful subject.

He had searched him on the station.

He keeps searching him that Tuesday.

He keeps searching him another Tuesday.

The next one, he gave up. Because there were other fishes in the sea and Bokuto Koutarou had lots of nets. But every morning, sitting in the same bench, draining his last cigarette, he kept thinking about the individual with the shirt rolled to the elbows. And he kept smiling.

He must be a wealthy businessman. A little spoilt brat who couldn't distinguish a Picasso from a Sorolla. But ugh, did it matter? He will never see him again.

(Although he wanted to see him. Although he wanted to see him every morning of his life).

Living as an art student was hard. He shared an apartment with three other guys from the University (One of them looked like a hobbit out of Middle-earth, he dyed his fringe yellow, like a fucking chicken; another one shoved his whole head off; and the last one was a posh and nobody ever knew what he was doing there, but there he was, with his stupid smile and an absurd egocentrism) and they couldn't even gain money to start eating worthy things for dinner, typical of a human being, and not of a dairy farm.

Because of this, and other issues of life, Koutaro began selling his paintings. He sat at the park every day, he pulled his best smile and began to paint all he saw.

He painted beautiful girls. Dogs, pigeons. He also painted children, drunk people, old men throwing bread to the pond.

Every radiant morning always started with the optimistic painter jumping with joy.

In the evening, however, he crawled to home, depressed and with no new money in his pockets.

So, when the indomitable Kuroo Tetsurou bought one of his illustrations in exchange for a cigarette and some cash (he had not seen that amount of money together in his hands since his roommate Tooru won a bet for suspending his breath more than 1 minute with his head submerged in the toilet), he couldn't help but accept it. He would bring the goddamn painting to the office, and all. "I'm poor, but I'm honest."

What he wasn't expected was to be face to face against the man with the brand new shoes, white as snow, his eyes fixed on him.

And, in spite of the absurd situation, he wished for a moment that those eyes looked at him (even with such horror face) for eternity.


End file.
